


Rainstorms

by artisticallyunwritten



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also rainy kisses, F/M, Fluff, Hence the dynamics work accordingly, Romance, Winner of the Stydia Week fluff category on tumblr, Written after season 3b, a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticallyunwritten/pseuds/artisticallyunwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being in a relationship with Stiles Stilinski was insanity painted in red. He was the boy who would shift awkwardly in front of you and then skim his long fingers over the right places on your waist. Oneshot. Set in Junior Year. Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainstorms

**Author's Note:**

> I have already posted this on ff.net and tumblr but since I am new around here, I thought I should put it up!

**A/N: Teen Wolf isn't mine and Stydia isn't canon yet.**

An elaborate flick of her hair. An elaborate flick of her hair is all that Lydia Martin needs to showcase to all of Beacon Hills that every cell in her body is carefully crafted with metallic confidence. Not many people at five foot three inches can command attention when they walk into the room, and Lydia Martin is part of that very small slice of the circle on that Venn Diagram that represents the people who do.

Lydia Martin had seen boys pine for her ever since the puberty years had ended. She had laughed at some and cried for one. But never,  _never_  had Lydia Martin allowed her confidence to falter in public. No matter how difficult it got, Lydia had kept her shoulders square and performed that very elaborate flick of her hair. The world could think of Lydia Martin as a nut job, but Lydia Martin would always tell the guests at her birthday party to not touch anything. The statement was clear for those who were smart enough to see it: Lydia Martin is a strawberry blonde fire – ferociously beautiful – but never get too close lest she burns you.

Except there was this one combination of the XY Chromosome who had thrown caution to the winds, and had decided that he was ready to be engulfed.

Which is why, in her junior year, we see Lydia do something she has never done before; she nervously chews on her lower lip and checks the wall clock as often as the seconds tick. She will never say this out loud to anyone, but she can't wait for this mathematics class to end because she knows he is right outside. And she doesn't want these last few minutes to pass either because she knows, _oh she knows he is right outside._

And it is so incredibly difficult to concentrate on three dimensional vectors when she knows that someone, on the other side of the wall that she is so nervously staring at, is waiting for her to come out. Because thinking about him outside, leads to thinking about him. It makes her think about those warm brown eyes, concerned and mischievous, and how they twinkle a little bit after every sarcastic remark that comes out of his mouth. His mouth,  _dear God, his mouth_  and all the wonderful,  _wonderful, completely majestic_  patterns that he paints on Lydia's body using that mouth. And his hands, big calloused hands with its long fingers. Hands that cradle her and fingers that he intertwines with hers. She feels her heartbeat race, and she hasn't even stepped foot outside of class yet. Thinking about his slightly disheveled hair at the end of school day and his long strides and his animated hand gestures as he talks about something that Lydia can't listen to because she is so busy staring at the way his eyes light up with excitement and his sarcastic remarks that makes her roll her eyes and then, then that light peck at her temple which sends her reeling.

She stares at the clock again. Two whole minutes to go. One hundred and twenty seconds. Sheer torture. And perhaps, even a little salvage.

Because her heart is racing and her head is reeling and she cannot possibly pay any attention to quantities with directions and magnitudes and it is all so wonderful. But it is also so utterly terrifying. Lydia was not used to this. She was used to hurried make out sessions in empty classrooms, she wasn't used to boys standing outside her class waiting for her. She was the girl with the high held head and the confident hair flicking, not the girl who nervously chews on her lip thinking about someone. Lydia Martin has always loved math, she had never wanted to leave class early, until now, that is. And for the very first time in her life, Lydia realizes, she has no clue about how to deal. She loved it. But she also grew frustrated with it. This wasn't her normal gig.

Stiles Stilinski and all these feeling that had Lydia out of her comfort territory.

The bell finally rings and Lydia hurriedly packs her notebook and stationery up and heads outside before she has the time to process her feelings any further. She rushes to the door, and skids to a halt right at the threshold. She sees him, and for the first few nanoseconds, she sees  _only_  him. He was leaning against the lockers, before he saw her and straightened himself just as their eyes had met. Green into brown and all the hues between them. He grins a little and awkwardly waves at her and Lydia feels something flutter in her stomach –  _God, there was actual fluttering now –_ because who even waves at their girlfriend anymore? She clutches her notebook closer to her chest and smiles at him. And this is all so new and so exhilarating and so completely petrifying because Lydia cannot even remember the last time she had clutched things and sent shy smiles. The smiles she tended to throw at boys were saucy and flirtatious, and they used to be replied to with knowing smirks. Mischievous grins and butterfly smiles, when did that begin?

She walks forwards towards him and he is scratching the back of his neck and nobody knows why moments like these have them giddy in the chest, because moments like these tend to happen quite often. He waits for her outside her class on a regular basis and she meets him for five minutes at lunch every day before he has to hop off to economics and their text messages do not always revolve around the supernatural and she sneaked into his bedroom the night of his birthday and they squabble all the time and things get heated all the time and usually one of them has to shut the other one up by putting their lips together. Moments like these are now common occurrences but that still didn't stop the fireworks in their nerves whenever they happen. She is standing right in front of him now, so close that the tips of her sandals touch the rubber lining around his converse. And he is tall; five foot eleven to her five foot three which leaves her at the perfect position that if she was to place her head on his chest right now, she will be tucked under his chin.

"How was math?" he asks her, "I mean, in my personal opinion, if math was a living being it would probably have been the next big threat to Beacon Hills so we can all be thankful that it is dead. But you like it so, err… how was it, yeah?"

Lydia had no idea how a person could possibly say all of that in one breath and she had only proceeded to reply, when Stiles suddenly extended his left arm, narrowly missing her ear and begins to talk again, "I mean, I am not saying there is anything wrong with liking math, you know? I mean, it's not normal but you have that whole Fields Medal and 5.0 GPA thing going so of course you like math, that's completely fine –"

"Hullo, to you too Stilinski." She says.

He stops talking. He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. "Hullo." And suddenly he isn't talking at one hundred and fifty miles per hour, and his hand is not in the air gesturing anymore. He is just looking at her, all smiles because Lydia Martin is smiling back and it has been three month and seventeen days and it is all an exquisite kind of madness.

His voice turns deliciously low during that greeting, and he starts grinning like a loon and she is looking back at him, trying as best to gain control of the situation as she could. But she couldn't, not for the life of her. And this is all so puzzling because he was doing nothing, absolutely nothing. He wasn't touching her, not even lightly. He wasn't sending any teasing remarks her way, and trust Lydia Martin on the fact that Stiles Stilinski can be a hell of a tease when he wants, except now he wasn't. He was standing there, back against the lockers, looking down at her and grinning because of her.  _Because of her_. And that should be enough ammunition for Lydia to take control of the moment, but it is exactly this,  _this grinning because of her_  business that Stiles does that is her unravelling. He grins because of her, and she grins right back because of him and they unravel together.

And then he does it. He reaches down and lightly grazes her temple with his lips. Right in front of her hairline and he lingers there just a moment longer, his breath whispering quiet nothings on her skin and the smell of him surrounding her, all musky and aftershave and she takes in a whiff and his breath is still there, warm and hovering and his scent is setting her ablaze and the little stretch of skin next to her eyebrow where his lips had touched her are searing. It was a peck on the temple.

Simple really, took him less than three seconds. It was a peck on her temple and Lydia Martin has never felt this before. It was a peck on the temple and if she would have just clutched the front of his T-shirt over his heart she would have felt it hammering. It was a peck on the temple and an all kinds of complicated, never felt before, adrenaline pumping little touch.

She wasn't even over that yet, she hadn't even figured out how this boy was able to evoke a spectrum of emotions with simple mindless touches, when she felt his pointer trail down her arm and trace patterns on her palm. He was looking at her, still looking at her and he was smiling, and there was a twinkle in his warm brown eyes. He finally lightly hooked his little finger with her little finger and squeezed it for a nanosecond. Lydia Martin felt like she was in seventh grade having her first encounter with a boy.

He began to walk then, towards the exit doors and Lydia walked with him. They weren't exactly holding hands, they were just connected. In a very innocent, very vulnerable way,  _they were connected._  The only part of him touching her was that little finger on her little finger. And the bundles of nerves in that corner of their hands were hypersensitive.

"I am heading over to Scott's after school; you want me to drop you home?" He asks, turning his head to look at her.

"You're heading over to Scott's?" Lydia asks back, "Is everything okay?"

"Well, that depends," Stiles responds, "Do you mean "okay" in the Beacon Hills' sense of the word okay where everything is normal but nothing is okay and we are talking about some bastard of the devil or do you mean okay in the normal sense of the word okay where Beacon Hills is completely un-normal about the fact that everything is normal?"

Lydia sighs. God probably decided to create her boyfriend on a Sunday when He had a lot of free time on His hands.

"Stiles, why are you heading over to Scott?" Stiles opens his mouth but Lydia beats him to it, "And please try to respond like a normal person," Stiles opens his mouth again only to be interrupted again, "and by normal I mean the un-normal in Beacon Hills where everything is normal," Stiles again makes an attempt to reply, "And don't come up with a smart remark or so help me God –"

"Star Wars. He lost a bet, I was going to make him watch Star Wars today," Stiles finally responds.

Lydia rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile.

"You  _can_  smile you know," he tells her. She shakes her head and proceeds to walk forwards only to feel the pressure on her little finger increase and be pulled back and collide into his chest. He takes a step back immediately. "You didn't reply; you want a drop home?"

"My home is the exact opposite direction as Scott's," she tells him.

"Well come on then," he says pulling her along, faster towards the parking lot.

"Did you not hear me?" She questions as she hurried along with him, fingers still linked, "In completely opposite directions!"

"I heard you alright." Stiles replies continuing with his long strides and fishing in his pocket for the keys of the excuse of a vehicle that he drives, "And you didn't say, 'Stiles I don't want you to drop me home.'"

Lydia clenched her eyes shut and exhaled before opening them again. She wasn't used to this. She was never used to this. This, whatever it is between Stiles and herself, was far from anything she had ever gone through and she had no idea how to cope. She is Lydia Martin, she is the personification of confidence. She is the one always in control of situations.

She is Lydia Martin and she doesn't know what is happening.

She climbs into the passenger seat of that sorry scrap of metal she has developed a soft corner for, she watches Stiles take the driving seat and realizes she has no clue how to handle this. This is new. All of this. Lydia has never felt it, never experienced it. Lydia Martin has been in relationships, she has had boys wrapped around her finger. But they were never this. What she shares with this boy, this spastic, sarcastic, far too intelligent for his own good male specimen of the human race, is uncharted territory.

She was used to receiving text messages telling her where to meet and she was used to rough, uncouth kisses and fight for dominance in a battle for lust. She wasn't used to being waited for outside class, or being asked how math was or little touches on completely innocent parts on her body that sent her tumbling.

She was used to numb bodies; she wasn't used to alive, dancing souls.

This was new and wonderful and mindless and intimidating and everything she loved and everything that scared her.  _What was she supposed to do?_

He must have talked during their drive, because that boy never,  _never_  stopped talking. There was always something going on in that head of his and this ball of energy could hardly ever stop thinking or telling her what he thought or asking her what she thought and listening to the sound of her voice. And Lydia must have replied to him, because she can never stop herself from replying because this boy had this inane ability to take Lydia's façade and tear it to shreds without even trying to and when Lydia was Lydia and no one else, she cannot stop thinking either. Or telling people what she thought. And for that matter, listening to the sound of Stiles Stilinski's voice.

And Stiles talks to her about everything,  _everything._  He talks to her about werewolves and light sabers and blue and chocolate and his dad and her mom and the stars and the sand and her hair and chemistry and fiction and her intellect and lacrosse and Scott and whatever it is that catches his fancy. He talks. She talks. He argues. She argues. And then one of them kisses the other to shut them up.

Stiles finally pulls up in front of her house and just as she is about to step out, he takes hold of her hand and tugs her towards him, so that her front is pressed against his front. She had just looked up to see the pool of warmth, that are his eyes when without warning Stiles crashes his lips down to hers and she is lost to whatever it is that is around her. He is still holding her hand and he has it pressed to his chest while his other hand cradles her face and his fingers tangle themselves with her hair behind her ear and her hand, the hand that he isn't holding right over his heart, is clutching the front of his shirt for dear life. And their lips,  _oh Holy Lord their lips,_  are sucking on each other and there are pyrotechnics in every cell of their body. He slightly tugs on her lower lip and she whimpers,  _she actually whimpers,_ and her hand slides up to his neck and starts playing with the hair at the back of his head.

"I'll see you later, yeah?" he says against her lips.

"Hmm," is all that Lydia can respond to this because she'd rather he doesn't talk.

"I might be running late to Scott's," he hardly lets out as she suckles on his lower lip.

"You should go then," she clutches the front of his shirt tighter. He bites on her lower lip and she gasps, because it's all him and it's all her and it's a frenzy of lips and touches and heartbeats.

He pulls back soon, because he needs his oxygen supply and Lydia pulls back because she needs to regain mental stability. Her cheeks are flushed. His shirt is wrinkled from the front. Her hair is coming out from where it was held up. His lips are swollen.

So yes, they talked during that ride, and they shared one dream of a kiss at the end of it, but five hours later as Lydia Martin lies on her bed, splayed over her stomach, she could hardly concentrate on the Economics homework in front of her because all she can actually remember from that drive home was him. Just him. Not his words, not his actions. Him. The essence of him and the idea of him. Stiles Stilinski. Sarcastic, hyper active Stiles Stilinski with his excessive fondness for plaid.

When she had kissed him those three months, seventeen days ago, she had no idea that this is where she would end up. She had had relationships before; she knew how to be around boyfriends. What to say to them, what not to say to them. When to tease, when to give in, when to pull back. She knew all the tactics in the book. She had always assumed she had mastered this. Except, being in a relationship with Stiles Stilinski was not what she had charted it up to be. The tactics don't work and she is hardly ever in control of the situations. She whimpers when he kisses her and she smiles like a fool when she thinks about him.

And she knows she could have handled temple kisses and light touches, in fact she knows that she would have gotten bored of them at some point. And perhaps he knows that too. Which is why he knows just how to mix light innocent touches with touches that set fire on her skin and promise more later. And when he gives her more later she reaches heights of bliss that she hadn't previously known existed. He would give her temple kisses and then sometimes he would lean closer to her, groan her name in her ear and bite her ear lobe and skip off to class. He would smiles shyly when he sees her, and he waves, but sometimes he grins mischievously and winks. When Lydia traces her tongue over his jaw, he sighs out her name like a prayer that he wishes on his life would be answered, but then he would turn his face just in time and bite her lower lip.

Being in a relationship with Stiles Stilinski was insanity painted in red. He was the boy who would shift awkwardly in front of you and then skim his long fingers over the right places on your waist.

And as the days are passing Lydia is crashing towards the realization that she is standing on a deserted island. Because he waits for her outside her class and he makes her heart beat faster than anybody has ever done. And Lydia was used to unkind groping and hungry stares, she wasn't used to passionate patterns on her skin and eyes that look at her with awe and respect.

She loves it, and she wants it. But she is Lydia Martin and her relationships end up being car wrecks. Add to that fact that at least with previous relationships she knew how things worked while in this one, she has her breath stolen every moment. She wants to talk to someone about it, she wants someone to tell her how to deal with this. How to handle this. And she once knew someone who would tell her how. She wanted _her_  to know that Lydia now understands what  _she_  had said in that car those years ago, Lydia now understands what _she_  had felt for Scott. Allison would have known. Allison always knew. She would have smiled at Lydia as she would tell him about Stiles and she would take her hand and tell her how happy she was for her. Allison would give her the perfect advice, because Allison would know what she is talking about.

Lydia shut her eyes tight. Thinking about Allison was like picking on an old scab. It hurts and it bleeds again and it makes Lydia tear up. She missed her. She will always miss her. And she hopes that her best friend knows that Lydia finally understands but she doesn't understand at all, and she needs her. She always needs her.

She could talk to Kira, but Kira dotes on her and Stiles so much she probably wouldn't understand. Kira hadn't seen Jackson, Kira didn't properly see what things were like with Aiden, and Kira was more like Stiles than she was like her, and as much as Lydia loved the compassion in that girl, Lydia was also aware that Kira just wouldn't get it. Scott would understand. Scott had known Lydia for so long, and after Allison, they had bonded over what they shared with that girl. But what would she tell him?  _Your best friend treats me so well, it scares me Scott because he doesn't act like my previous boyfriends._  God, she isn't making any sense to herself, she would hardly make any to him.

And after going full circle, Lydia ended up where she always knew she will end up. There was only one person who would understand what she is trying to say, only one person who can make sense of the mess that are her emotions. There was only one person she can talk to about Stiles Stilinski, and that was Stiles Stilinski.

She exhales loudly and picks up her cell phone. Opening up the contact list, she scrolls down it until she has reached his name and then pretending that her heart isn't about to break her rib cage and jump right out, she hits the call button.

One ring. She bites her lower lip.

Two rings. She clenches the phone harder.

Three rings. She closes her eyes.

"Hey Lydia," Her eyes snap open.

"Hey – hey Stiles," she replies, "You still at Scott's?"

"No. Because we didn't watch Star Wars,"

"You didn't wa –"

"No. We didn't. He distracted me with his idea of going into the woods to watch him play The Lacrosse of The Werewolfitude," Lydia smiled at the expression, where does he even come up with this? "I don't know why I'm best friends with this man," Stiles continued to complain.

Lydia laughs.

"No, don't laugh. I am emotionally tarnished right now."

"You're over react –"

"No, I am not! This is Star Wars! How can he not watch Star Wars?"

"Stiles –"

"How can he do this to me?"

"Listen to me at –"

"He promised me. I defeated him in the bet fair and square, I just –"

"Can you come meet me right now?" She half screamed into the phone. Lydia rolled her eyes. He was unbelievable, this boy was  _unbelievable._

"Right now?" He asked. Lydia sighed in relief, at least that put the Star Wars rant on hold.

"Does "right now" mean "perhaps later" in your books?" She asked him, making sure her voice sounded sickly sweet.

"Well, right now means, it's eight in the evening and I am pretty sure there are more clouds than normal in the sky and my girlfriend is being suspiciously mysterious about it." He replied.

"Oh just come pick me up," Lydia told him, exasperated.

There was silence on the other end. Lydia checked her phone to see if he had disconnected – he hadn't.

"Stiles?" She said into the phone.

"Yeah?" His voice seemed on edge.

"Oh come on. You are really not going to ask?"

"Ask? Ask what?"

"Whatever it is that is going on in your head."

"There is nothing going on in my head."

"Nothing going on in your head? Is that even possible?"

"Well, it is happening as of this moment."

"You are really not going to ask, then?"

"I don't have any queries with me, here."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"I can confirm, nothing at all."

"Alright then, I'll see you."

"You want to talk about something important?"

"I thought there was nothing going on in your head."

She disconnected.

It was wrong, making him worry like that. The boy probably must be coming up with three hundred different scenarios in his head right now, and each one will be worse than the last. She knew that. But if Lydia is being completely honest with herself, she enjoys this. Enjoys the idea that she can get Stiles Stilinski to worry about her like that. She wasn't proud of it, but she knew her boyfriend's concern as one of his vulnerable chinks and she gains some sort of giddy happiness exploiting it. She was logical and intelligent, but she was also a girl at the receiving end of concerned attention from her boyfriend for the very first time, and it soothed some part inside her.

Thirteen minutes and four thunderclaps later she receives a text from Stiles telling her he is waiting downstairs. She is ready and prepared, but she doesn't run downstairs towards her front door. No, Lydia Martin rushes to her bedroom window and she will never tell anybody why. She looks at him; he got out of his jeep, his hands are dug deep in his pockets and he is bouncing on the balls of his feet. And then a moment later, he looks up and their gazes connect and the bouncing stops. His hair is strewn in a million different directions and she is clutching the window sill and her hair is let down which is framing her face perfectly. The winds blowing are rough and she can hear the clouds roar, it isn't raining, not yet, but you can smell it in the air. It's about to. And Stiles' face is illuminated by the light on her porch, so all she can see is him standing in his little halo and he waves at her again. And for a moment, Lydia Martin forgets the conversation that is about to take place.

He gestures her to come downstairs and she disappears from the window to appear in front of him twelve seconds later. She sees him scratching the back of his head and comes to a halt five steps away from him.

He can see her and she can see him. They can hear the sound of the wind blaring and the clouds growling. And they can smell the scent of the rain before it decides to come pouring down on earth. They can feel the coolness of the air. And they can almost,  _almost_  taste the adrenaline pumping.

He makes to move forward and trips on a pebble. Lydia just rolls her eyes, walks past him and climbs into his jeep. Once seated, she allows him the time to perform his typical eye-clenching-cursing-the-high-heavens-because-of-his-motor-functions ritual which he always performs when he breaks a moment like that. Once he is done, he enters the jeep and revs the engine.

And then he doesn't drive. She is staring ahead and he is staring at her, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers.

"What?" She asked, irritated.

"Well," Stiles begins, "I am assuming we have to go somewhere."

"Yeah, drive." She orders.

"Drive where?" He raises his arms in question.

"Just – just drive, Stiles."

"Lydia, this is Beacon Hills after dark," he informs her, "you just don't drive here, you head off to some place if you want to remain in a singular piece for the next day."

Lydia bites her tongue in annoyance; whatever is going on in her head is difficult enough to deal with, already. She turns her face towards him and presents him with the most murderous glare she could muster. _Boy, if looks could kill._

"Oh God. Fine!" Stiles half screams as he puts his foot on the gas, and turns the steering.

Clouds are swirling and covering up the stars and Lydia can feel her heartbeat trying to challenge the howls of the wind. There is a storm stirring outside and there is a storm stirring inside and Stiles Stilinski will have to face both of them tonight. He keeps driving for five minutes, and Lydia can see his pointer twitching on the steering wheel but she is too busy trying to form some sort of coherence in her thoughts before she puts them out in front of him.

She begins to find the words in the back of her throat.

"Well?" Stiles interrupts and she loses them.

"Lydia, is everything okay?" He asks again, this time sounding considerably concerned.

"Yeah, yeah I am fine."

"So what is this about?" He questions, eyes on the road.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Lydia begins, and a raindrop falls on the jeep's windshield.

"I am listening," he replies, and the winds roar louder.

"Look Stiles," she says, turning her entire body to face him, "I wanted to ask you something –" The steady pitter patter begins on the pavement.

Stiles nods.

"I just wanted to know –" The clouds thunder over them.

"Are you okay?" He asks her. Is she okay? This is the first time in her entire life it had taken her three attempts to say something to a boy and still fail at it. She is not okay.

Suddenly the sky lights up with streaks of bluish white and his face is all too visible and Lydia blurts out, "Why do you wait for me outside class?"

The skies open up as much as they can and the raindrops are pelting the jeep hard and fast. It's almost torrential.

It takes Stiles a minute and half to recover from the query and Lydia the same amount of time to realize what she had said. As soon as the minute and a half passes Stiles hit the brakes.

"Wait – what?" Stiles questions turning in his seat so he could look at her, "Correct me if I am wrong but did you just ask me why I stand outside your class." He doesn't sound angry. Confused, perhaps. Maybe a little bit amused too.

Lydia refuses to sugarcoat it. "You aren't mistaken, that's what I asked."

Stiles narrows his eyes at her, which furrow his brows and crinkles his forehead and this expression usually makes Lydia smile but right now is not usual, right now is sweaty palms and nervous glances. He lets out a bark of a laughter then, and is about to change gears, when Lydia keeps her hand on his to stop him. There is a downpour outside.

"I am serious," She tells him, "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" Stiles asks, hint of the laugh still in place, him wearing the expression of a man entering the realm of confusion.

"Why do you wait for me outside class," she questions again.

"I don't know Lydia. I just do." Stiles tries to reason, shrugging in the process, "I never actually thought about it."

 _How can he not think about it?_ "How can you not think about?" Lydia questions, growing steadily frustrated. This was important. This was serious. This is what had been plaguing her mind since weeks now.

"How can I – Why would I think about it, Lydia?" The hints of the laughter were clearly gone and whatever was left on his face resembled uncertainty more than anything else. "Where is all of this even coming from?"

"Where is this coming from?" Lydia asks, her voice rising, "Are you seriously asking me that? Have you not seen my past relationships, Mr. I-can-challenge-Sherlock-Holmes-in-observational-skills?"

"What is the co-relation between your past relationships, my observational skills – Sherlock might just win by the way – and me standing outside your class?" He asks, becoming increasingly confused with where this conversation was headed.

"I am not used to it Stiles!" She finally spells it out for him, almost shrieking in the process.

"Well, of course you are not used to it!" He replied without missing a beat. And Lydia begins to feel herself relax because now he probably gets it, "When was the last time you dated a regular human?"

Lydia almost growled. So much for him finally getting it.

Bad timing, Stilinski.

She opens up the door of the jeep in frustration and steps out into the downpour because this conversation was headed nowhere. And this has been troubling her for so long and Stiles needs to understand,  _he really needs to understand,_ because Lydia doesn't and one of them should.

She begins to walk forwards, headed exactly to the same destination as the conversation she was having – nowhere. She hears the door of the jeep slam shut with a loud  _bang_ but she doesn't stop. She keeps walking when she hears footsteps running behind her and she doesn't turn around when he calls out her name.

"Lydia, this Beacon Hills after dark in the middle of a rainstorm, I can't even see and hear you properly," he is almost shouting to be heard over the storm as he follows her fast paces, "how did you manage that 5.0 GPA?"

That gets to Lydia; she turns around on her feet. "Don't," she points her finger at his chest, "go there."

She turns around to continue to walk when Stiles catches hold of her upper arm and turns her around to face him.

The wind is howling, the clouds are rumbling and the skies have torn apart to allow the waters to pelt on land. He is standing there, his hand holding her arm, their chests almost pressed together, completely drenched.

"What's this about, Lydia?" He questions, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

"I told you what this is about." She said, raising her chin in defiance.

"You want to know why I wait for you outside class?" His voice is low and she can still somehow manage to hear him over the ruckus around them.

She nods.

"You don't want me to?" And that is when she hears, for the very first time, the insecurity step in.

And Lydia Martin doesn't feel sympathy for the boy, she feels anger. Because  _is he insane?_  He makes her heart do the salsa just by looking at her and he makes her giggle in ways she hasn't giggled before, he leaves her heart racing by gentle stares and her breath hitching by innocent touches and he  _feels insecure about it?_

"I never said that," Lydia replies, breaking free from his hold.

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because I want to know Stiles!" Lydia screams, "I have never felt this out of control of a situation before. I can't concentrate in class because I am thinking about you and then you are there, waiting for me and giving me these ridiculous shy smiles and mischievous grins and butterfly kisses. And I am a mess. This is not how my relationships ever worked. I don't do the heart racing business. I have never felt this way before –"

"Well you should have!" He roars.

There are clouds and winds and rain and adrenaline and rustles of leaves and lightning. But there is silence. Silence other than the words Stiles had just boomed over nature.  _Well_ ,  _you_ _should have_. Lydia allows those words to sink in and she cannot imagine the last time that four words had made her feel what they are making her feel right now. Valued and respected and loved. She is silenced.

"You should have been used to it." Stiles says, quietly this time, eyes boring into hers.

"Just tell me why," Lydia repeats her question.

"I don't know!" Stiles' voice rises again, "Who even thinks about that. I stand for you outside class, because I want to! I don't know."

"You want to?" Her voice implies she doesn't believe him.

"Well, why do  _you_  come running into the cafeteria to visit me when your lunch period begins?" He questions her.

And suddenly the tables turn, water droplets are pouring down their faces and Stiles eyes fixate on one just on the crook of her neck. And Lydia realizes she doesn't know. Why does she go rushing to the cafeteria to meet him? Because she wants to see him. Because he makes her smile. Because he will look at her and make her feel like the only person who matters in the world. Because he is Stiles. Because he is hers.

Stiles snorts at Lydia's lack of reply.

"Every day," he begins, "every day I go to Economics late and let Coach skin me for it but it doesn't matter. Because five minutes ago, I had seen you running to the cafeteria – something nobody has seen you do since middle school by the way." He tells her. "And you do this because of me. And I wait for those five minutes every day because you will be rushing to see me and you look at me and send me a smile and I feel the ground shift beneath me, literally –"

"That is not how you use literally –"

"No shut up!" He reprimands, she hides her smile, "You sneak into my bedroom at the night of my birthday and I am left there, standing speechless wondering what sort of a saint was I in my previous life."

Lydia isn't able to hide this one.

"So yeah, I wait for you outside class, because I like to. Because I want to. Because I don't know. Because I want to see you. Because I want to walk to the parking lot holding your hand. I don't know, Lydia! Who knows?"

He had been ranting and he is breathless. And the storm doesn't matter because this does. This, what is happening right now between these two, matters.

"You're insane." She informs him after a while.

"You're impossible." He retorts.

And they are standing there, staring at each other and the rain is still pouring. They are drenched, their clothes are sticking to their bodies and water droplets are sticking to their eyelashes and this is insane and this is impossible but this is also hauntingly beautiful.

There hasn't been a resolution yet. Someone needs to say something to get there. Someone needs to fill in the empty holes. Someone needs to speak up. Stiles does after a while.

"Do you know how long we've been dating Lydia?" He asks, and opens his mouth to answer his own question.

But Lydia interrupts, "Three months, seventeen days."

"Three – wait, you do?"

Lydia rolls her eyes "Of course, I do."

"Well, do you know how many times we've watched The Notebook during these past three months, seventeen days?"

Lydia opens her mouth, but Stiles beats her to it this time, "Five times," he tells her. "Five times. Which basically means we watch The Notebook once every, what, twenty one days?"

"Clever math work."

"Thanks. But the point here is, that once every twenty one days I watch you smile at a man jumping on the Ferris Wheel to blackmail a girl into dating him – which is creepy, by the way. Also he had just met her, who even does that – and I watch you cry over the fact that he wrote her three hundred and sixty five letters – which is also insane – but I watch you nonetheless."

Lydia is not even trying to hide her smile at this point and she is feeling these things again, this entire spectrum of emotions that only Stiles Stilinski can evoke in her and his shirt is sticking to his chest and his hair is messed up in a hundred different directions and he is saying the words she had never heard before and he is looking at her with the passion of a supernova and she doesn't bother with the fact that she can't control whatever is happening because it's okay. Because it's him. Because it will always be okay.

"Lydia, you watch cliché romances once every twenty one days and you make me watch them with you, so you better not tell me that you are not used to it. Because you are! You always have been!"

He moves forward to hold her hand and entwines their fingers together, "You're a storm and you're mad and you drive me up the wall but I was eight when I felt you take my breath away for the very first time and it has been ten years and you still do that, you make me feel alive and happy and I have no –"

She didn't let him finish whatever he was trying to say because she suddenly crashes her lips to his because she doesn't need to hear it because she understands now, she finally understands. Stiles Stilinski stands outside her class for the same reason that she wants him to stand outside her class and that doesn't matter right now.

Because her lips are on his and they are challenging the wildness of the storm that encircles them. There is nothing light about this kiss, there is the passion of the nebulas and the novas and the dark lightning struck skies. She pulls him closer to herself by the collar of his shirt and his hands are on her waist and the only thing separating them right now are the petty excuse of the soaked clothing over their bodies which are so drenched they very well might not have been there.

He pulls her closer still so there remains no space between them, none at all and he is soaring and she is soaring. She lets her tongue explore every crevice of his mouth and Stiles moans into it. She loses it then, her knees failing her so she bites on his lower lip in retaliation. He moves his mouth away from her and lowers his head to suck on the water droplet sitting on her collar bone. Lydia feels her eyes roll back in her head, "Stiles!" she breathes and that is louder than any thunderstorm to ever happen. So Stiles bites on her neck and uses his tongue to sooth the pain. Lydia pulls on his hair and roughly crashes her lips back to his because she needs him like she needs her oxygen.

The winds is cold, the rain is cold as is the night but two bodies standing on a deserted Beacon Hills road burn as wild as the first fire that was ever lit on earth.

Lydia clenches the front of his shirt so tight that she would tear it if she tugs, but his hands are roaming over her back, under her shirt and this is all senseless and scorching and completely  _completely_ exhilarating. But this is also real and the two of them can't thank their lucky stars enough for it.

Stiles finally pulls back and places his forehead against hers as both of them try to catch their breaths. His hands are back on his waist, her hands are tangled in his hair. He opens his eyes to look at her and she is flushed and breathless and cold and drenched and maddeningly beautiful.

"Get used to it." He mutters.

Eyes still closed, she laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback please?


End file.
